Poetry

Deep inside 
there was a simian jealousy. 
The opaque words will raise 
a burnt-out storm – 
returning the whole family 
of white flowers to the moon. 
 
The falling 
inside the bowl 
before the snake could strike 
interrupting the dead soldiers 
of unknown war- 
weapon-free. 
 
A stunning invasion 
of the spoons in summer months, 
when sweat was expensive than 
truth and a sentence 
was lost between the punctuations. 
 
Yet I was going to recite a poem.